


Deck the Langham's Halls

by novelogical (writingmonsters)



Category: Burnt (2015)
Genre: Brief Pining, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Shenanigans of All Sorts, Established Relationship, Gingerbread House Disasters, Ice Skating, M/M, Mistletoe, They're Just Cute and Dumb Holiday Ficlets, What a Horrendous Summary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/pseuds/novelogical
Summary: A series of Christmas ficlets.1) Adam and Tony's first kiss under the mistletoe -- and their very first kiss.2) It turns out garland isn't just for decorating trees.3) Adam causes some trouble for Tony in the process of baking gingerbread.4) Tony decides a date is in order and Adam can't skate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misanthropiclycanthrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/gifts).



> For Jake. Frohe Weihnachten, mein lieber Freund <3

For a while, the world had still felt glorious, brilliant. Paris, dusted with a fresh snowfall and dripping with golden holiday lights -- Jean Luc’s restaurant trimmed with holly boughs and baubles. And, in the kitchen’s back doorway, a single pathetic sprig of mistletoe tied with red ribbon.

Adam had exhaled a breath of smoke and frost into the chilly air, rocking back onto his heels in the stillness of the back alley. Twenty minutes before they needed to start prepping for dinner service -- just long enough to slip out the back for a cigarette break in the blue evening. 

He had been poised on the edge of the precipice, then. A few more months -- the discovery of coke -- and he would tumble over the edge into catastrophe.

A few lazy snowflakes had drifted, caught in the glow of the single row of Christmas lights. The world had seemed so distant for a moment and Adam had drawn another nicotine-heavy pull from the cigarette between his bare, frozen fingers.

“Adam?”

Tony -- silhouetted in the doorway in the fashionable peacoat that hadn’t been nearly warm enough, looping a scarf around his neck and blinking in the twilight.

“Hey.” Adam had flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, held it out half-offering. “You want a smoke?”

He had already known the answer, and Tony had huffed a soft laugh -- breath clouding -- and shook his head. “No, thank you.” And he had straightened his lapels, lingering on the stoop. Restless. “Reece says you are needed in the kitchen -- break time is over.”

Adam had tossed down the cigarette, grinding the embers out beneath his heel. “They’re sending you out here to play messenger, now?” And he had glanced up at Tony -- soft-eyed and sharp-tongued Little Tony -- and his blue eyes had caught, snagged on the doorway. “Oh,” he had murmured. “Huh.”

“What?” Tony had frowned, itched at the tip of his nose. A familiar, nervous tic.

Grinning, rakish, Adam had lifted his eyebrows and pointed as Tony had tilted his head back, bearing the vulnerable column of his throat. 

The sorry-looking, solitary bouquet of mistletoe with its white, waxy berries and stubby leaves hung crookedly in the doorway, just above his head.

“Oh.” And instantly Tony had shrank -- gone wide-eyed and flushed, stammering out “I didn’t… But...”

“You’re under the mistletoe.” Something -- some compulsion in him, bone-deep -- had drawn Adam up onto the step before Tony; the two of them toe-to-toe. And Adam had felt so still, so steady, watching the way the Christmas lights caught Tony’s darting ochre eyes. “Means I owe you a kiss.”

Tony had swallowed hard, and it hadn’t been the winter chill that reddened his ears. “You don’t -- Adam.” And tongue-tied, he had stumbled a half-step back -- found himself pressed against the kitchen door. “I’m not so sure…”

There had been something dangerously fragile in his face. A silent plea --  _ don’t tease me, please _ . And Adam had not been sure whether it was kindness or cruelty when he slipped cold fingers beneath Tony’s scarf to cradle the nape of his neck, steadying him. The tender, hopeless crush Tony harbored had been the worst-kept secret among them all.

“Hey, rules are rules, Tones.” In the twilight, with the golden Christmas lights winking like stars, there had been no hiding from the swell of warmth within his chest. The tangled, tender, fond thing that niggled at the back of his mind when he thought too much about it -- about Tony. And Adam had told himself it would be meaningless. That it had to be. “Even if it means I had to be kissed by  _ Max _ .”

And Tony hadn’t quite laughed, but the line of his shoulders had softened, the corners of his mouth twitching. It would mean nothing. A quick, stupid kiss between friends -- nothing more -- and he had steeled himself, had refused to let the thought pierce him to the quick. Had thought  _ please, yes _ and  _ Oh God, I can’t  _ in the same moment.

Adam had leaned in then, the electric blue of his eyes unwavering. Had cupped Tony’s face in his frigid hands, and it had been real. So very, frighteningly real.

“ _ Adam _ .”

He had kissed his name from Tony’s mouth -- a brush of lips and softness and the warm, shattering gasp broken between them. And Adam had deluded himself so spectacularly then, but he should have known. Should have seen how inevitable it all was. He had kissed Tony as gently as he could, had offered him what kindness he had. And he hadn’t realized then -- had been too stupid to recognize that he loved Tony Balerdi too.

So much time later, someone -- probably Kaitlin, with mischief lurking in the corners of her mouth -- hangs a sprig of bright green mistletoe from the heat lamps above the pass a lifetime later, and Adam does not take it down. Not right away.

Tony comes sweeping in with questions about the menu plan, his nose buried in seating charts, and Adam watches the flick of his eyes, the curl of his lips when he spots the bouquet. “You are under the mistletoe,” Tony hums, all mirth and wickedness, when there is just the span of the counter top between them, his hands braced against the cool stone. “This means I owe you a kiss.”

And Adam is unable to keep himself from grinning --  _ beaming  _ \-- at Tony, leaning on his elbows to meet him halfway.


	2. Chapter 2

_ If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself _ .

Adam thinks, sometimes, that Tony adheres far too firmly to this proverb.

They close the dining room for an afternoon and it becomes the Ground Zero of Langham Christmas decorating. There are pine boughs and holly, ribbons and garland unraveling in all directions, the unearthed crates of red and gold and silvered ornaments to be dusted off. The trees are delivered in a breath of clean-scrubbed, spicy air; two for the dining room and one towering pine to be stationed in the hotel’s foyer.

Tony, particular as he is, takes to micro-managing the entire process.

Adam avoids the worst of it, holed up in the empty kitchen scribbling notes and revisions for the holiday menu plans. It is only when he thinks he has it all perfect that he risks venturing into the merry chaos to consult with Tony.

“So,” he proclaims, wandering among the dining room tables piled with unsorted decor. “I’m thinking quail, and pair it with a Beaujolais?” And as he circles the base of the half-adorned Christmas tree, Adam grinds to a halt. “What the --?”

Tony has discarded his grey suit jacket and tie. Stripped down to his shirtsleeves, he stands on one of the dining chairs, flush-faced and sweaty as he struggles, attempting to drape a length of garland on the boughs.

“Jesus, Tony, are you crazy?” Adam watches him lean precariously and tosses down the menu draft, seizing Tony around the waist. It breaks Tony's focus, the sudden touch startling him, and Adam digs his fingers into Tony's hips as he wobbles. “You’re gonna break your neck.”

Tony spares him only the briefest, most disdainful of glances. “I will do no such thing.” The perfect cupid's bow of his mouth irons itself into a stubborn, unhappy line. “Everything is under control.”

They are too similar; obsessive, meticulous, riding the knife's edge between perfectionism and self-destruction. And stubborn. Unbelievably stubborn.

Adam sighs, massaging concentric circles in the dip of Tony's spine with his thumbs. “C’mon,” he cajoles. “You’ve got decorators for a reason, just let them do their jobs.”

Tony’s snort says exactly what he thinks of the decorators.

Adam rolls his eyes, resettling his grip on Tony’s waist as he stretches. “You’re  _ obsessing _ . It’ll look fine.”

From where Adam stands, there are other things looking fine as well. Tony has worn his grey tweed suit today, the one with the trousers cut just the right side of tight, and -- balanced on the chair as he is -- it gives Adam an excellent view of his backside.

Tony hums, unconvinced. “What did you come up with for the new menu?”

Adam lets him redirect the debate, wandering through the revised list for Tony's approval with his fingers hooked into the back of his belt, free hand trailing up and down the length of Tony's long, slim legs.

Tony fusses, interrogates him on the details of several dishes, mulling over wine pairings and flavor profiles as he tucks the sparkly garland around the top of the tree. Adam gives the back of his calf a gentle squeeze.

It still surprises Adam, just how much he finds himself living for these moments; how much he loves talking to Tony. It settles something in him -- Tony always keen and quick with his insights, his smile soft. 

“There,” Tony proclaims at last with a sigh. I don’t think it is going to end up looking any better.” He dusts his hands off, leaning back to admire his handiwork, and gives a sharp yelp when Adam squeezes him around the middle, plucking him from atop the chair. “ _ Adam _ !”

Adam folds his arms around Tony, back-to-chest, pressing a kiss to his smooth cheek. “C'mon,” he teases, dropping his chin onto Tony's shoulder. His eye is drawn to the leftover lengths of garland, unspooled on the table. “Where’s your holiday cheer?” He fingers a spool of discarded golden ribbon, drapes it around Tony's shoulders like a scarf. “You stress too much, Tones.”

“Oh, I am stressing, am I?” Tony raises an eyebrow, feigning disdain even as he settles back against Adam's chest, making himself comfortable. “Says the pot to the kettle.”

Adam loops the garland around Tony's upper arms, draws it tight across his chest. “Funny how that works, huh?” 

And Tony's breath catches -- a revealing hitch at the back of his throat -- when Adam gives the ribbon a tug, teases Tony's earlobe with his teeth. 

“C'mon,” Adam coaxes, trailing kisses along his jaw. Tony squirms. “The tree's done -- leave the rest for the decorators.”

“ _ Fine _ .” For all that Tony tries to grumble, acquiescing with ill-grace, there is no denying the way he melts back into Adam, a moan ragged around the edges of the word.

Adam kisses him, quick and fierce. Says “bring that garland with you” with his pale eyes hungry, glittering. “I think I might have to do some decorating of my own.”


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, Helene was the one who thought of it. Pitched the idea to Adam and Tony -- a gingerbread creation in the dining room entrance. 

“What’s the point?” He demands of Helene -- the pair of them already elbow-deep in biscuit dough by the time the sun has crowned the horizon. “It’s not like it’s going to be edible when we’re slathering hot glue all over it.”

“It’s a display of skill.”

“I could bake gingerbread that tastes like shit and cobble it together into a house,” Adam argues good-naturedly. “That’s not a display of skill.”

“Well it’s art,” Helene harrumphs, applying a careful trail of glue. “And it’ll look nice in the foyer.”

The kitchen is heady with the smell of their baking -- all spice and sweetness. Helene consults their architectural plans, sketched out in Adam’s scrawling hand, as he dusts flour onto his palms, sets about kneading the batch of raw dough into its proper shape.

“Good morning.” Tony comes breezing into the kitchen, all sunshine and busy energy. “How goes it with our construction?”

Helene, half-crouched before the base of their gingerbread hotel with one panel propped awkwardly upright to track another line of glue along its length, groans. “Tony, don’t even ask.”

“It goes that well, hm?” Tony gives her a wide berth, inhaling deeply, and Adam’s insides still do backflips at the way his soft, boyish face lights up. Tony hums appreciatively. “It smells amazing in here.”

And Adam knows him too well, watches as the bright brown eyes drift over the cooling racks, considering the carefully molded shapes that Helene has started to cobble together into a gingerbread Langham.

“It’s not for eating,” he scolds, rolling out the fresh dough, well aware of Tony’s sweet tooth.  “There’s a separate batch in the oven right now, you can check on those.” 

Tony presses a quick kiss to his stubble-rough cheek, heading for the oven. “These look done.” Investigating the racks of perfectly round cookies brings a fresh wave of warm cinnamon and clove rolling through the kitchen. “They are for the menu tonight?”

Adam nods. ‘Tis the season, after all. “Throw ‘em on the cooling rack.”

For a time there is only the scrape of the spatula levering gingerbread medallions onto the cooling rack, the quiet sounds of the dough being cut and shaped for another batch, Helene cursing every so often when the strings of hot glue land on the backs of her hands. Adam revels in the peacefulness of it.

And then there is a crunch -- the gingerbread panel crumbling -- and Helene bites out an exasperated “oh, for the love of --!”

Tony moves to assist her, assessing the damage. “You have made extra pieces, yes?”

“Yes.” Adam had predicted this, has already thrown out a whole batch that turned out too brittle to use. “Thank fuck.”

And then there is another snap as Helene turns to find the spare piece -- a crisp, sharp sound -- and Tony is holding a chunk of the Langham’s biscuit wall in his hand.

“ _ Tony _ !”

“What did I say?” Adam turns from the pass, laughing, to swat Tony on the backside. “Don’t eat my restaurant.”

“This one is in pieces, Adam.” Tony points out, all glittering brown eyes. “It’s fair game.”

“It’s covered in glue,” Helene reminds him.

Tony pulls a face. Sighs. “A tragedy.” Dust crumbles everywhere when they remove the broken piece. He props the replacement up while Helene glues. “How is Lily? Ready for the holidays?”

“Yeah,” Helene pushes at her loose fringe. “She’s excited -- gets the week off school and -- oh.” She sniggers, unable to help herself, still bent double over the gingerbread hotel. “Oh, Tony.”

And as Adam glances over his shoulder, dusting his hands off, he spots it instantly -- the source of Helene’s laughter. 

“What?” The troubled, anxious frown Tony wears only makes it better. “Why are you laughing? What is so funny?”

He cracks up.

Wiping the last traces of flour from his hands, Adam plucks the side towel from his belt. “C’mere,” he insists, trying to smother his laughter. And he catches Tony by the shoulders, turning him around to assess the damage. “You’ve --  _ heh  _ \-- you’ve got a little something…”

Tony twists, craning his neck, eyes widening with horror. “ _ Adam _ !”

The after-image of a white flour hand print on his backside, stark against the dark navy of his suit. 

“You -- you -- Adam, you bastard.” Indignant as he is, Tony can’t help it -- the laughter bubbles over, shoulders shaking and eyes bright. 

“I’m sorry.” Adam’s pale eyes sparkle even as he purses his lips, tries to smother his laughter. He isn’t sorry at all, that much is obvious. “I’m sorry -- hold still.” And it’s absolutely terrible; he bends Tony over the pass, dusting briskly at the incriminating hand print.

It’s a terribly compromising position.

“This is humiliating,” Tony grouses. “I should kill you.”

“Nah, you love me too much.” Adam holds him steady, scrubbing at the stubborn smudges of flour dust. “Consider it a mark of affection.”

“You know,” Helene manages, looking like she might burst from the effort to contain her giggles. “When it comes to displaying their affection for one another, most couples do rings or shitty tattoos of each other’s names -- not a giant floury hand print on the ass.”

Adam snorts, releasing Tony. “There -- you’re decent again.” And he considers Helene’s words, watching as Tony straightens his lapels, smooths his hair back. It’s a dangerous question to ask. “If I did give you a ring, would you say yes?”

Tony cants his head thoughtfully, pretending to consider. The answer is obvious. “Maybe you should try it and find out,” he suggests, twinkling up at Adam; all bright eyes and soft smile.

And Adam had never thought to entertain such an idea -- had lived for so long claiming he wasn’t the ‘put a ring on it’ type. That he wasn’t the  _ relationship _ type. But for Tony...

“Maybe I should.”


	4. Chapter 4

For once, it is Tony who insists, Tony who proposes the scheme and cajoles Adam, instead of the other way around. “Come on,” he shuffles through staff lists and seating arrangements, even as he presses Adam. “It will be fun. We have hardly had any time together lately.”

Because Adam is belligerent by nature, he reminds Tony “we see each other every day at work.” But he leans in the office doorway, arms folded across his chest, and already knows that he will capitulate.

Tony waves him off, unimpressed with this counterpoint. “That is not the same and you know it.” There is a brilliant, eager light behind his honey-brown eyes when he looks up from the paperwork, an executive decision made. “It’s almost Christmas, Adam -- we deserve at least one proper date. Tomorrow night. Just the two of us.”

And if Tony will always say ‘yes’ to Adam Jones, Adam finds that he has never been able to say ‘no’ to Tony Balerdi.

The walk through Hyde Park is quiet -- neither one of them needing to say much as they wander through the twilight. Adam bumps Tony’s hip, twines their gloved fingers together. Tony squeezes his hand, tucking himself in close to Adam’s side.

“I did mention that I don’t know how to skate, right?” Adam allows Tony to tow him around the periphery of the Natural History Museum’s rink, the ice lit bright blue and crowded with skaters. “You’re gonna be scraping me off that ice.”

The shimmering Christmas lights gather in Tony’s eyes when he grins, half-hidden behind his thick scarf. “A first time for everything, no? Besides --” Adam lives for his impish, smiling face. “I’ll teach you. Very little chance of falling, then.”

Adam chuckles as they weave their way into the rental line, tightening his grip on Tony’s firm hand. “I think you overestimate my abilities.”

“Nonsense.” 

Tony has always had faith in Adam and his abilities and he always will. It is a universal constant. He knows Adam -- he  _ knows him  _ \-- and there is no limit to what the man can do. Not in Tony’s eyes.

With his skates properly laced Tony hops smoothly to his feet, extending both mitten-clad hands to Adam. It feels so secure, so solid, this thing between them.

“All right, all right.” Adam lets himself be levered up off the bench, wobbles on the unsteady skates. “Lead the way.”

Almost as soon as he hits the ice, Adam is skidding, arms pinwheeling, just barely capable of staying upright. Tony skates smoothly backward, all big brown eyes -- intent. “Just one foot in front of the other” he coaxes, pulling Adam lightly along. “Little steps. Come on.” 

They manage a slow, wobbling half-circuit around the rink and Tony glows, scissoring his skates as Adam grows steadier on his feet. 

It’s a catch of blades in ice, a collapse of ankles, and Adam’s legs go flying out from underneath him. He hits the ice hard. And Tony hits Adam hard, pulled down in the sprawl of limbs -- an elbow in the stomach, a knee to the groin.

Adam wheezes, breathless. Laughs. 

For half a moment they lay motionless in their heap on the ice, skaters flying past. Tony stumbles over an apology, grinning. Adam winces, presses a quick kiss to Tony’s temple before they manage to struggle to their feet.

Eventually, he is able to manage something like a shuffle on his own, white-knuckling the railing. Tony -- graceful, wonderful Tony -- is infinitely patient. At last, Adam waves him off with a snort and terribly fond look. “Go on,” he urges. “You know you want to show off -- I promise I won’t collapse without you.”

Tony pecks him on the lips and executes a precise little spin, gliding smoothly off into the midst of the crowd. Adam tracks him around the rink, all but stops in place to watch as Tony executes a few tight spins, weaving backward, coasting on one skate with his leg extended in a graceful line.

How lucky Adam is, to see this side of him -- to love him.

“The Olympics are calling,” he teases when Tony circles back. “they need you to fill a spot on the figure skating team.” And for all that he has puttered his way slowly around the rink, his knees have started to ache, his breathing hard. “How about a hot chocolate break, yeah? Much more of this and I’m gonna have to work the pass sitting down.”

Tony laughs -- a beautiful sight -- all smiles and ruddy nose in the chill. “Okay, okay.”

The hot chocolate is served in styrofoam cups that creak in their hands. They sit side-by-side on one of the benches, the cold metal bleeding through their trousers. Adam knocks the rims of their cups together in a silent toast as Tony melts so comfortably into his side. 

It is perfect. 

“You remember Christmases in Paris?” Adam muses as Tony sips carefully at the hot chocolate, wary of the scalding heat. “The staff dinner, and how we’d all go out to  _ Le Saint Sauveur _ after and wind up singing carols in the streets?”

“Yes.” Tony leans his head against Adam’s shoulder, watching the flocks of skaters as they glide past. He is quiet, the joyful ebullience gone. He remembers many, many things from their days in Paris.

“It feels like that was a lifetime ago.” Adam shifts, slipping an arm around Tony as he holds the memories up to the light, considering. “Everything’s so different now.”

“ _ You _ are different now.” Tony says it with such conviction, such whole-hearted sincerity. And he would know.

“You think so?”

A firm nod. “You are better. Happier -- I hope.”

Adam hears the hesitation, the question half-disguised. He smiles -- a soft, contented thing -- his breath warm against Tony’s frigid cheek. “I couldn’t be happier if I tried, Tones.”


End file.
